


COUNTDOWN (NINE TO SAY YES)

by pyrality



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Chirolinguistics, Established Relationship, Experimental, M/M, Relationship Study, asexual drift, chronological snapshots, driftrod amica endura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8966407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrality/pseuds/pyrality
Summary: "You're fond of me," Drift says pointedly.
  Ratchet stop-starts, optics cycling as he looks back at him. His eyes are a brighter, deeper blue than normal— affectionate. "I think we established that back when I made the terrible decision to kiss you back."
  "I grew on you."
  "Like a rust infection."
Or, nine snapshots through time when Drift and Ratchet have said "I love you" without actually saying it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> xmas gift fic for my close friend max!  
> love you i hope you enjoy this~ we've been friends for two years and i hope we can stay that way for many more
> 
> this begins post-empire of stone!

1. _things we did and didn’t say  
_ "I can take care of myself," Drift insists, and he sounds tired, even to his own ears. 

His voice no longer has the same defensiveness and misplaced anger he originally had when Ratchet first appeared with his hand extended like a peace offering. He supposes it was stupid of him to be so angry at the one mech who reached out to him for the first time in a long time, but he was lost, not unlike how he was when Wing found him so many centuries ago. But he’s not lost anymore— he’s just tired. He's tired of dodging questions, of slipping through the cracks, of putting up walls between them.

"This looks bad," he says, smiling faintly, "but it’s all surface neglect."

"Lying to a doctor," Ratchet says dryly. He's smiling, but it's a tight, strained smile, and Drift does not miss the sudden flare of his optics— clear blue bleeding into angry red bleeding into determined purple, "not your best attempt at subterfuge."

Drift wants to protest, but the mech levels him with a sharp, warning look and holds his hand up like a stop sign. He flicks his gaze from his hand to Ratchet’s face and back and back again. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, but somehow it doesn’t feel entirely like defeat. Drift makes a sound in the back of his throat, vocalizer clicking with a skrill of static before he settles back down onto the berth. It's no use fighting Ratchet, not when it comes to something like this. He expects a lecture, heated and stinging words delivered in a cold voice because Ratchet's never been good at being soft.

Ratchet stops at the foot of the berth, and Drift doesn't look at him. He looks down at his hands, clenched into fists on his closed thighs, and then offlines his optics and braces himself. 

"Relax," Ratchet says instead, and his voice is startlingly _soft_.

Drift sucks in a sharp intake, almost choking from the sudden rush of air flushing through his system. His head snaps up, optics flaring online, to look at Ratchet, and he doesn't know quite what his spark does when he sees the warm concern in the medic’s eyes.

Drift feels his mouth open and he wants to say something—  _sorry I left without a proper goodbye, sorry I pushed you away when you came back, sorry I'm self-destructive and make you worry_. 

But nothing comes out and Ratchet's mouth quirks downward, upset, and Drift thinks suddenly, he'd want nothing more than to kiss him. It hits him suddenly, like his processor is just now recalling all the memories he's ever had of almost confessions lost at the tip of his tongue. Things he had wanted to say when it was just the two of them in the medbay during all the different points in time: after big battles when Ratchet was surrounded by unconscious bodies and had no time for him, during quiet moments when Ratchet had nothing but time but no time for Drift.

Drift still wants to kiss him, so he looks away. He let out a slow ex-vent, deleting the recalled memory strands one by one, tucking them back into the recesses of his processor. He _still_ wants to kiss him. Maybe he’ll have to bury those memories deeper.  

"Hard to relax when I know you're about to chew me out and it's probably gonna hurt more than when they made my Decepticon badg—"

"You're not a burden, Drift."

Oh.

The emotions flood out of him in scrambled rush, and he reaches out with his field like a trust fall, and Ratchet's field catches him, answers him. His field broadcasts stability, unmovable, existing through the time, weathered but still strong. 

"I'm sorry I left," he says, and the air running through his system is still too warm even with his fans kicking on.

"I'm sorry I let you leave," Ratchet counters fiercely.

Drift doesn't say anything for a moment. He offlines his optics, focusing on the sensation of their mingling fields. Ratchet's calm, but there are other emotions within his field— a lingering trail of normally well-hidden regret, the tinge of frustrated anger, and small bursts of concern. He knows the other mech is not normally patient, but this time, Ratchet waits.

Drift puts himself back together piece by piece, making sense of each emotion as his processor recognizes it.

"We're going to get you fixed up," Ratchet says finally. His voice is quiet, but firm, not leaving room for argument. "And then when _you_ feel ready, we'll head back to the Lost Light."

"I don't know," Drift manages, looking up at him, smiling. His mouth feels a little raw from the movement, but it feels like the first genuine smile he’s cracked in a very long time. "I think this freelancer thing is kind of appealing. I could never resist wanting to be a hero after all." 

"I sure hope that doesn't make me your cranky old sidekick," Ratchet says dryly, cycling his optics.

Drift's spark swells, and he almost snaps his field back to hide the affection he knows is bleeding into it. Ratchet jolts, a twitch really, when he feels the emotion, and worst of all, he _smiles._  

(Oh, and Drift is so in trouble.)

"You can be my love interest."

"You said that out loud."

Ratchet's optics are very bright and his field is pleased and amused and Drift has always been a risk taker so he kisses him.

 

 

 

2. _f_ _ondness as currency and language  
_ "Are you ever going to explain to me how you have so much money?" 

"Nope," Drift replies gleefully, popping the 'p' sound in a way he knows annoys the other mech. "A gentlemech never tells his secrets."

"A mystery for Nightbeat to wrack his brain over," Ratchet decides finally, still squinting at him.

The new ship they (Drift) bought is spacious, comes with four bedrooms, and has a small room they can repurpose into a prison cell if they ever have the need. Originally meant to be a cargo ship, it has a drop down dock and comes with a well-built, powerful quantum drive for fast travel. The quantum drive will enable them to catch up to the Lost Light quickly once they track the ship back down... if they choose to. Ratchet's leaving the choice up to him. It feels a little selfish to say he doesn't want to just yet. There's a few reasons; he doesn't feel like he can face the crew yet, he doesn't know where to begin with Rodimus, and... well, _maybe_ part of him wants to explore space with just him and Ratchet. Maybe.

He looks up to see the doctor still marveling over the ship's engineering and design as they walk through it. He murmurs something appreciative as he opens one of the bedrooms and peeks inside. Drift lets his own eyes wander over Ratchet's newly painted and upgraded frame. He looks good, he decides, the best he has in years. Being Chief Medical Officer wasn't easy, and Ratchet never was very good of letting go of that, clinging to old appearances and what was comfortable and familiar. His colors are reversed, and his chassis’ glass chest has been upgraded to something sturdier at Drift’s insistence. It's a fresh start for them both. 

"You're staring."

Drift jolts, looks up to see Ratchet watching him, an amused slant to his mouth and a smug gleam in his eyes.

"Look good for an old man," Drift shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

"We're the same age."

"And yet, I am full of youthful energy and have strong, beautiful hands thanks to the blessings of—"

Normally, Ratchet just groans out some variation of 'shut up' when he starts the spiritual babble, but this time he just brings his hand up and covers Drift's mouth. He grins behind the hand, and he's sure the humor of it reaches his optics because Ratchet twitches in annoyance. 

“Kinky.”

“Drift, you’re asexual.” 

He doesn't answer right away, instead bringing his hand up to press over Ratchet's. He keeps his hand there, holding it in place to press a quick kiss over his palm. Ratchet's fingers twitch at the gesture, and Drift can feel a pulse of surprise in his field. But the doctor doesn't pull away, and it sends a short trill through Drift as he decides to press his luck. He squeezes Ratchet's hand and turns his attention upwards, leaving feather-light kisses on his fingertips. The doctor makes a quiet noise, a hum maybe, his engine starting to rumble quietly.

Drift grins, finally speaking up, "Doesn't mean I can't still appreciate the aesthetic of Pharma's  _beautiful_ hands so lovingly crafted by Primus himself—"

Ratchet shoves his hand lightly against his mouth, cycling his optics and murmuring under his breath about how Drift is insufferable.

"You missed me despite all that," he points out, still grinning.

Ratchet's already turned from him and he makes air quotes without looking back. "'Despite all that', let's just say you have a certain... je ne sais quoi."

Drift stares after his profile. It must be something fond, that much he can tell from the phrasing of the sentence. Ratchet's voice is playful too, a quiet fondness beneath his rough demeanor. "That's not old Cybertronian— what is it, an Earth language?"

"Maybe," Ratchet says, throwing an amused glance back over his shoulder. "You'll never know."

"You're fond of me," Drift says pointedly.

Ratchet stop-starts, optics cycling as he looks back at him. His eyes are a brighter, deeper blue than normal— affectionate. "I think we established that back when I made the terrible decision to kiss you back." 

"I grew on you." 

"Like a rust infection." 

Drift's engine rumbles in a laugh and there's a good-natured humor in Ratchet's optics, and he thinks, faintly, this could be good. They hold each other's gaze for a few moments, and Ratchet's mouth curves up just barely before he turns away.

"I'm relieved you agreed to get a new ship," he says, breaking the comfortable silence between them. He pats a hand over the railing. "Your old shuttle was a disaster."

"I liked it."

"It was falling apart." 

"It had _character_."

"You say that about everything you like." 

Drift shrugs, and he knows Ratchet's realized his mistake because he holds up a finger warningly. He grins, and this time Ratchet smiles back without hiding it.

 

 

 

3\. _foreign but not unfamiliar  
_ Ratchet continues to use phrases in that Earth language. Drift finds out later that it’s called French… which actually helps him not much at all. He’s only been to Earth once, traveling there after leaving Crystal City. Since he was careful to not break cover, he’s never had to use a translator module or learn any of the local languages. His new, upgraded chassis has translation options for a vast number of languages, but nothing for languages as far away as the Milky Way. It drives him a little crazy to hear Ratchet saying things he can't understand, and he tells him as much. 

"C'est la vie," Ratchet replies, grinning as he turns away. 

Drift huffs to himself. It wouldn’t be impossible with a little (or a lot) of shanix to get it upgraded. However, while it may frustrate him to no end that he'll never know if Ratchet's said anything incriminatingly _affectionate_ , he does enjoy seeing the medic having fun in his own way. That being said, it’s not as though he can’t get back at Ratchet in _other_ ways. He grins as he says something in old Cybertronian, something he learned while in Crystal City, and feels smug as Ratchet stares at him, perplexed.

"What does that mean?” Ratchet asks, optics bright, suspicious.

"I guess you'll never know,” Drift whistles, tucking his arms behind his head. 

Ratchet stares at him expectantly, waiting for a translation, and the self-satisfied smile on Drift’s face is answer enough that he won't get one. "Something unbearably fond undoubtedly," he scoffs.

 

 

 

4\. _talk with your hands (from your spark)  
_ “I’m beginning to suspect,” Ratchet says, a quiet humor in his voice, “that this is an excuse to hold my hands.”

“Shhh. You’re the one who asked in the first place.” Drift hums, onlining an optic to peek at the medic, who’s frowning but still has his own eyes offlined. “Concentrate. Let’s go over what I taught you.”

“Hmm.”

Drift moves his fingers, sending pulses through Ratchet’s nerve circuits. There’s a pause as the medic presumably thinks about how to formulate the proper response. He squeezes Drift’s hands in thought, and the warrior smiles to himself. They’re sitting at a too small table with the chairs too close together. Their knees bump under the table, and their fields inevitably mingle from the closeness. It’s quiet around them, and the feeling of Ratchet’s field rolling in thoughtful waves of concentration is soothing. They made a pit stop at a nearby friendly mechanical planet and while doing some research, Drift used chirolinguistics to talk to someone who pointed them towards the library. Ratchet never learned how to talk with his hands, and now here they are.

“Have you learned anything at all in the past hour, or am I that of a bad teacher?”

Ratchet snorts, and rubs his thumb along the side of Drift’s own. He sends a faint, thrumming pulse through his nerve circuits. Drift frowns, and keeps his optics offline.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Ratchet.”

“I know.”

Drift feels more than he hears the useless click his vocalizer makes, and feels warm with embarrassment at the waves of amusement in Ratchet’s field. He huffs, rubs his thumb along the back of his hand and he thinks his spark clenches a little when the medic squeezes his hands tightly in response. There’s a burst of surprisingly unconcealed albeit quiet affection in his field. Drift vibrates his field, sending a wave of muted contentment back, and Ratchet chuckles. 

Their eyes are still closed, but somehow like this, Drift feels like he’s seeing Ratchet clearer now than ever before.

 

 

 

5\. _things we did and didn’t let go of  
_ The shuttle is on autopilot to give the both of them a break for a little bit. The space ahead of them is devoid of the hustle bustle of fast and reckless ships near a trading post or the calamitous turmoil of asteroid fields in motion. Instead, the vast expanse before them is dark with speckles of distant planets, suns, moons, and stars. With nothing demanding a need for precise navigation, Drift’s set them on an aimless path towards the closest galaxy. They’ve done a good job cleaning the previous sector out of straggler Decepticon factions, and it’s time to move on to the next one.

Drift meditates to pass the time since he’s unfortunately out of anything to read. He's a fast reader and he tore through the assortment of novels he bought at the last trading post in record time. Ratchet had frowned and shaken his head in distaste and exasperation when he skimmed through the selection Drift had picked out— Spectralist teachings, Cybertronian historical lore, storybook legends of the Knights of Cybertron… and some fictional novels Ratchet called “bodice-rippers”. In his defense, the romance novels were, for the most part, fun and silly. It’s not as though any of them were _trashy_  or _lewd_ , after all, he has no interest in interfacing of any sort. He found the other novels informative, and if not that, at the least, they were interesting. Ratchet hadn’t commented much more on his Drift’s reading decisions, and for that he’s grateful. They don’t always get along and they certainly don't see eye-to-eye when it comes to religion especially, but they’ve settled on letting the other hold onto their respective beliefs.

Speaking of, the medic himself is also reading. Ratchet’s quietly poring over a datapad of medical literature he picked up from the last Decepticon base they cleared out. “Grotesque,” he mutters. “The experiments they were running on the local natives there was senseless savagery.”

“I’m not surprised,” Drift murmurs. His optics are still offline, hands folded in his lap as he meditates. “Considering they’re this far out, they probably didn’t get the memo about Megatron.”

“The renouncement of the Decepticon movement?” Ratchet scoffs. There’s the faint sound of him clicking his stylus, flipping the pages on the datapad to continue reading. “The DJD and other Decepticons of their ilk are unlikely to accept it even if they had heard it.”

Silence falls between them, filled only with the muted hum of the ship’s engine and the beeping and whirring of the steering controls on autopilot. He feels perfectly mindful, noting the feel of air flowing gently though his vents and the quiet hum of his contented engine and the soft vibrations of his pulsing spark. This feels like a good moment and he doesn’t want to ruin it. Another tap of Ratchet’s stylus, and Drift hesitates. He breathes in several measured intakes and ex-vents as he ponders how to bring up the topic. 

“What is it?”

“What?” Drift online his optics, looking over to see the medic already staring at him expectantly. He huffs out a laugh, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Was I thinking that loud?”

“Something’s bothering you,” Ratchet prompts, and his voice is measured and calm. He slips the stylus into its placeholder and sets the datapad down, looking at him seriously. “What is it?”

“The DJD,” Drift admits after a moment, looking away. He uncurls his legs from underneath him, stretching them out as he leans back against his chair. “You told me they killed the other Lost Light. The one that diverged after the first quantum jump.” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“It’s the DJD, Ratchet.” Drift folds his hands over his lap, jaw clenching almost painfully. He breathes in slowly, tries to let the air cool down his heated circuits and calm down his racing thoughts. “They don’t just _give up_. If they find out the crew isn’t dead, they’re going to hunt them down again.” He clenches his hands into fists over his thighs, venting out sharply. His vocalizer buzzes his next words with a trace of static. “And it’s my fault last time they killed everyone. They saw me and they… didn’t stop killing.” 

Ratchet doesn’t answer. Drift looks up at him to see his frame taut with tension, something angry in his eyes. “Is this an excuse to not go back to the Lost Light? Because you think you’ll be a burden?”

“I— No.“ He lets out a breath— it almost feels punched out of him. Ratchet’s eyes are so bright, so angry, and Drift wants to look away, but he doesn’t. “No. I _want_ to go back. Make a difference this time.” He shutters his optics off for a moment before looking at Ratchet. “They may come after us eventually too. I’d rather if we ever die, it’s in the company of our friends.” 

“We’re not going to die,” Ratchet spits out, fierce. He’s all fire and passion, and Drift loves him more than he thinks the medic even knows. “Drift, we’re going to—“

The sound of something ringing loud and shrill interrupts them both. Ratchet freezes as his expression morphs into one of recognition. He shoots up out of his seat, reaching for a cabinet at the front of the ship. Drift watches in confusion as the medic extracts a chunky-looking yellow phone from the cupboard. It stops ringing shortly after Ratchet picks it up.

"A call?"

"It's from First Aid,” Ratchet says, frowning. “He was the only one I gave this number to before I left. He hung up, but,” the medic trails off as he inserts the phone into a holding dock on the main console. His fingers fly across the holoboard keypad, "I can trace the call.”

Silence falls between them as Ratchet traces the signal. He stands up and watches as the galaxy map comes up between them, zooming in and out as it follows the call to its source. Drift supposes it’s good timing— they were just talking about going back to the Lost Light anyway. This may be a sign for them to go back. He smiles as the lights from the galaxy map’s projection illuminate Ratchet’s face. He leans through the hologram, grins as Ratchet jolts in surprise, snapping his gaze from the map to turn to Drift. The reflection of stars and milky galaxies and planets and suns flicker across Ratchet’s visage. He kisses him and the tracing signal completes, painting images of the blue flowers of Necroworld over the medic’s chassis. 

Ratchet’s breath is warm against his jaw as he pulls away, and he thinks he chuckles when Ratchet wraps a hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss. Drift presses a hand to his chest over his Autobot badge, and he can feel the faint thrum of Ratchet’s spark beneath the layers of armor. Ratchet lingers for awhile after they break apart. He hums, a quiet sound, and strokes a hand from Drift’s shoulder down the length of his arm before he pulls away. Drift watches as Ratchet inputs Necroworld’s coordinates and prepares for a quantum jump. 

“Are you going to go reclaim the CMO title from First Aid?”  

"I can let go of some things, contrary to popular belief."

"Didn't let go of me though."

Drift expects Ratchet to snap something back, a sharp and mean statement to hide his affection. Instead, the medic smiles, just barely, gaze still on the quantum jump drive.

"Glad I didn't.”

 

 

 

6\. _line of sight, waves of your field  
_ Drift likes to think he's subtle. 

He’s been a practicing spiritualist for a respectable amount of time now, and he prefers to think he has some decent control over the soothing flow of his field and the calm projections of his aura and the serene color of his eyes. But Rodimus sees the  _one_ lingering look he exchanges with Ratchet as the doctor passes down the hallway, and his spoiler immediately twitches with realization.

"What was _that_ look?" he demands as soon as Ratchet rounds the corner. He squints at him, optics bright.

"What look?" Drift tries innocently.

"That dopey, soft-eyed look!" Rodimus scoffs and leans forward towards him. His gaze flickers over him, and it takes Drift a second to realize he's reading his aura and body language like Drift originally taught him to. “You guys looked at each other and had a _moment_ and your field did this rolling _wave_ ,” he elaborates, going so far as to wiggle his hand and arm up and down.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, but it's hard to keep the amusement from bleeding into his field. He spreads his field out from his armor to mingle with Rodimus', who jolts before glaring at him. His field and aura flare with a dizzying mix of curiosity, shock, and scandalized betrayal.

"You're schmoozing my _doctor_!" Rodimus accuses, but the offended and hurt tone of his voice is exaggerated.

"He's everyone's doctor, Rodimus."

Rodimus scoffs again and straightens up, knocking a fist against Drift's chest. He has a terrible sense of foreboding at the sudden surge of gleeful amusement in his amica's field. "It's weird enough to know he has Pharma's hands, but now I know those are Pharma's hands and they've been on _you_ —" 

“Don't. And I’m ace, Rodimus, you know that."

"Next time I'm sick I guess I'll just die."

Drift hipchecks him, and Rodimus laughs as he rubs his hip, and Drift thinks he might be smiling too.

 

 

 

7\. _talking in circles (much ado about nothing)  
_ "How's my beautiful doctor?” 

"I've already decided I'm letting you die next time there is a life-threatening situation," Ratchet answers flatly without looking up.

Drift laughs, and it still feels startled out of him. Ratchet looks up at him, and there's a warmth in his eyes and the slightest hint of a smile curving his lips.

"You may have competition," Drift says after a moment of comfortable silence, grinning. He gestures behind him. "Since you told Ten about me with your oh-so-flattering descriptions, I think he's a bit starstruck to have met the real thing."

"And I think," Ratchet says slowly, "he thought you'd be _taller_."

"Oh?" Drift leans against the table, propping his hands on the surface and pressing his hips against the edge. He smiles and tilts his head at the other mech. "Would you rather I had stilettos? I personally think my hips are my greatest asset."

"I think," Ratchet says, leaning closer to him, "you're getting ahead of yourself.”

Drift feigns a scandalized gasp. "Don't tell me Rodimus is lying to me about how hot I am.”

Ratchet scoffs, "He flatters you constantly. Nonstop doting on you since you came back.”

"Are you _jealous_?"

Drift thinks about kissing him, closing the short gap between them and shutting Ratchet up before he can respond. But the doctor pulls away looking oddly pleased as he turns back to his computer. He drums his fingers against the table, rhythmic, to the faint beat of a human love song he knows Ratchet likes. The medic doesn't look up from the computer, but he does spread his field, and Drift lets out a sigh as he feels it mingle with his own. Ratchet's field is ambient, light and nonintrusive, a cocktail of warm emotions all so well mixed up in each other that Drift can't tell them apart. For all of the crew's jokes about how Ratchet's bedside manner must be terrible, he actually does have a soothing field. It does wonders right now for easing Drift’s tensions.

Talking to Rodimus and clearing the air about Overlord was helpful, but it doesn’t change the fact that his fears came true. The DJD want to hunt them down again, and Drift wonders if he’s dragged Ratchet to the grave with him now.

“Don’t.”

Drift jerks, looks up to see Ratchet frowning at him, brow creased and a wistful look in his optics.

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

He looks away, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Lot to think about with the DJD waiting for us to put out a welcome mat."

“Look at me, Drift.”

Drift obeys, turning his gaze to him. As Ratchet holds his gaze, he wonders if he can feel the turmoil of emotions hidden deep, deep within Drift’s field. It’s a cacophony of noise that drowns his thoughts out if he doesn’t bury it beneath everything else. He feels like Ratchet sees and hears him, like he’s bare beneath Ratchet’s scrutiny. He laughs, suddenly, hit with the ridiculousness of it all. Yes, Death is knocking at their door, but there was nothing they could’ve done to avoid it anyway. Had he refused to go to Necroworld, Ratchet would’ve gone anyway to help First Aid. They’re here together, and he supposes that’s what matters most.  Ratchet's back as the team’s medic. He's back among friends. And Drift’s done most everything he wanted to do— honored Wing and followed his teachings, started a quest to find the Knights of Cybertron, made up with his amica endura Rodimus, and— well. There’s one more thing. He will have to address that later.

They're where they want to be now. This is good. This is enough.

“I’m glad I met you, Ratchet."

 

 

 

8.  _that time I asked you about forever (til death do us apart / til all are one)  
_ It’s the final hour, so he decides, the time to address that one last thing is now. 

“Ratchet.”

Drift reaches for his hand, and Ratchet meets him halfway, brow furrowed, optics skeptical and worried. Before he can open his mouth to ask, Drift interrupts him.

“Ratchet, will you be my conjunx endura?”

The medic stares at him. There’s a litany of emotion bursting through his field— surprise, anxiety, concern, determination, _affection_ …. Drift squeezes Ratchet’s hand, leans close until their fields are entirely enveloped in each other. He spots Rodimus out of the corner of his eye, tired but grinning at the display. He turns to quickly usher the others away from them to give them some space. Drift’s grateful for small things. He looks up and finds Ratchet very close, close enough that he can feel faint heat radiating off of the medic’s armor. Ratchet kisses his jaw.

“Qui vivra verra.”

“And what does that mean?” Drift asks, smiling tiredly.

Ratchet hums, quiet for a few moments before he presses their forehelms together. “'He who lives shall see'.” He turns to look at Drift, something warm, and maybe desperate in his optics. “So don’t die. I’ve spent too much of my life fixing you to have you die on me now.”

Drift laughs, incredulous, a sound startled out of him, punched out of his vocalizer. He grins, stroking his thumb over the back of Ratchet’s hand.  

"À la vie, à la mort.” 

Ratchet stares at him. “Where did you learn that?”

“Rodimus,” Drift admits, grinning. It feels good to get Ratchet back when he least expected it. "You know how he is— a romantic and all that and he told me, supposedly… French is the language of _love_.” 

Ratchet laughs, turning away. There’s embarrassment in his field and unbelievable fondness, and Drift squeezes his hand. “I hope you don’t think everything I’ve said to you in the past few months has been romantic.” 

“Oh, I can tell a sweet nothing from an insult, I think.”

There’s a pause between them as they look at each other. Drift tugs him forward, and Ratchet relents. He lets go of the medic’s hand to wrap both arms around him, breathing slow and deep as Ratchet tucks his face into the crook of Drift’s neck and squeezes at his back. 

“Qui vivra verra,” Ratchet murmurs into his plating. 

He presses his other hand over Drift’s chest, thumb tracing the seam of where it would his chest plates would part to reveal his spark.

 

 

 

9.  _say yes_  
8  
7  
6  
5  
4  
3  
2  
1  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
“Will you be my conjunx endura, Drift?"


End file.
